“Yes, that’s why I’m here. It’s about the dig. We…” I hesitated, not wanting to go on.
“Found Jennifer,” he said.
Josie’s head swiveled. She stared at him, disbelieving.
“Dad, Mom’s not dead,” the girl said. “Like you always say, someday she’s coming home.”
Josh wrapped his arm tighter around his daughter and pulled her close. “We need to listen to the ranger, honey.”
“Mr. Allen, I’m very sorry to bring such sad news,” I said. “We had a confirmation about an hour ago, based on dental records, that those were your wife’s remains in the field. Liam Kneehoff has confessed to killing her.”
I waited. His eyes widened. From experience I knew that even when folks listened as intently as Josh Allen, it took a while for this type of information to register. There must be some biological process in the brain that buffers news this bad, for there always seemed to be that painful pause, those first seconds when everyone becomes resolutely quiet and speech seems impossible.
How many times over the past decade had Josh Allen visualized and feared this moment? How many times did he wake up after nightmares that played out this exact scenario?
As I watched, he sat back on the couch and trembled as if his entire body fought the news, as if it were possible to somehow shake off the pain flooding through him. Or at least to hold it back.
Perhaps Josie had never seen her father so out of control before, because panic took over. She hugged him and screamed, “Daddy! Daddy!”
He wrapped both arms tightly around her, as if fearing someone might snatch her from him, the way his wife was taken. Josh Allen sobbed, and his daughter wailed.
Twenty-seven
“Mail delivery,” the guard shouted through the two-foot-by-six-inch opening in Liam Kneehoff’s cell door, number nine in Death Row’s Pod A.
The interior of the slightly under seven-by-eleven-foot cell was remarkably organized. Next to the door on the left wall, a stainless steel toilet and sink unit hung. Everything in the cell had the same shape, rectangular, from a small desk to the shelf above it.
His first year in prison, Kneehoff struggled. He felt claustrophobic. The strict routine and tight security grated on him. Gradually, he settled into Polunsky. He found something elemental in life on death row. Kneehoff thought of it as minimalist to the extreme, a monkish existence. Every few days he showered and changed his white cotton jumpsuit with DR in large black letters on the back. After his wife divorced him, he’d deposited his share of their money into a prison trust account. The commissary didn’t offer a lot of options, but he had enough funds to buy whatever he wanted.
A narrow mattress covered in blue vinyl laid on a metal frame, beneath it the room’s only storage, a large opening where he kept his hot pot and typewriter. Cubbyholes housed paper, envelopes and stamps, a few toiletries, chips and protein bars, tea and instant coffee. Stacked next to the bed, he had copies of the Houston Chronicles and the New York Times that he read over and over, and beside them books ordered through the prison library. On the desk, a small fan churned endlessly. Without air conditioning, it offered only mild respite from the crushing summer heat.
Meal and mail deliveries almost felt like interruptions to his day, one spent listening to a small radio and reading, doing squats and pushups in his cell.
“You’ve got a bunch today,” Jim Steinman, the mail guard, said. “What the hell happened, Liam? You never used to get any mail except from your lawyers.”
The man looked at him through one of the two long, rectangular vertical windows. Thick like the Plexiglas in the visitor’s area, they were covered in a black mesh that distorted the view.
“I did a podcast, Steinman. Ever heard of one of those?”
“Can’t say that I have, but then, I’m not sure I care. Only thing is that this is making more work for me.”
Kneehoff rather liked Steinman. The guy had no pretensions about working in the prison only to put in his time and lock in his state pension. Unlike some of the other guards, Steinman treated the inmates like men not caged animals. He cracked jokes and listened to their complaints, even though he had no power to change anything.
“Well, here’s today’s batch.”
Kneehoff stood four feet back in his cell, as Steinman stacked newspapers and correspondence on the shelf the pass-through door made when open. The prison didn’t allow inmates to have the envelopes. They could be used to smuggle drugs into the prison, added to the glue on the flap or on stamps. So Kneehoff peered through the door window as Steinman held up each envelope for inspection. The guard then placed the corresponding letter on the pile.
When the stack grew a few inches thick, Steinman walked back a few steps and Kneehoff came forward. He grabbed the pile and put it on his bunk. He then returned to his position and waited for more. The process took only about ten minutes, and at no time did Kneehoff get close to the door while Steinman processed the mail.
“Here’s a funny one,” Steinman said, holding up an envelope someone had decorated with a red marker, hand-drawn hearts of all sizes across the back. “Think it’s a marriage proposal?”
Kneehoff grinned. “Might be. I got one yesterday. She wants to have my children. Said that would keep me alive after you people put me to death.”
“Don’t you have kids?”
“Yes, I do. Although they appear to have disowned me,” Kneehoff said. “I can’t imagine what the ex said to turn them against me.” At that, he laughed.
“Well, I guess it takes all kinds,” Steinman said with a soft chuckle. “I hope you explained to this woman who wants to have your offspring that we don’t have conjugal visits on death row.”
“No. I didn’t. I thought, why not let her dream.”
Steinman laughed again. Then he held up his empty hands. “That’s it for today.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Kneehoff said. “See you tomorrow.”
Much of the rest of the afternoon, Kneehoff read through the newspapers. He carefully combed through the business sections, checking on the price of oil, which was down with domestic production at an all-time high. Some of his former friends, oil execs and such, were moving up in their companies. He read the announcements a few times, thinking about them and remembering things they’d done together, business dinners and the like. He bought Astros season tickets with one. After games, they frequented the old Ninfa’s on Navigation, where they drank margaritas and rehashed the stand-out plays.
Finally, Kneehoff put the Chronicle to the side and picked up the first letter, the one that came in the envelope covered with red-marker hearts. “I felt a connection with you watching the podcast,” someone named Cissie wrote. “I wonder if you’d like a pen pal, someone to keep you company if not physically, spiritually? I am willing to be that for you.”
Kneehoff started two piles of letters, one to keep and one to give the guards to throw away. The throw-away pile included all the hate mail, the rants from those he thought of as the you’ll-burn-in-hell crowd. They taunted him and looked forward to the day the executioner injected lethal drugs into his arm.
Cissie’s letter went on the pile he’d keep and answer. Others in that heap were from people who wanted to help Kneehoff find God. Death penalty protestors sent most of the rest. One read: “Even for a serial killer, there’s no reason not to just keep you locked up and throw away the key.” Another came from a French organization. They wanted to visit soon to film a documentary explaining how he’d mended his ways and helped law enforcement. “You’re such a valuable resource for your country. They shouldn’t kill you.”
To Kneehoff, the letters of support were little more than an amusement.
His supporters could complain all they wanted, stir up as much controversy as they liked, but it wasn’t going to change anything. Eventually the state of Texas would exact payment for what he’d done. All Kneehoff hoped for was to postpone the inevitable as long as possible.
That said, the notoriet
y did appeal to him. Why not feel good that someone might mourn him?
Near the end of the stack of letters, Kneehoff held up a single sheet of paper with just a few lines typed across it:
I GOT YOUR MESSAGE. I UNDERSTAND.
I WILL TAKE CARE OF IT.
F T
Kneehoff read and reread it and wondered what this person meant. He hadn’t sent anyone a message. But as he reconsidered and thought back over the past week, he realized that perhaps he had. The podcast came to mind, the exchange when he expressed his deep remorse at not putting Kristilynn Cavanaugh where she belonged, under a thick layer of Texas rock, soil and clay like the other women. He tried to remember what he’d told that Wilkins guy, the old man who made the video.
“I said I hoped someone would finish her off for me,” Kneehoff whispered, the right side of his mouth slowly curling into a half smile. “Maybe that’s the message. Maybe that’s what he’s going to take care of.”
On that podcast, he’d talked about his affinity with the arsonist, how they had much in common. Examining the note again, Kneehoff singled out the sign off, two letters: FT.
“Fellow Traveler.”
Twenty-eight
“Mom, I’m going to work late.”
On the phone with her, I pictured my mother biting her lower lip, her usual pose when I disappointed her. As much as Mom tried not to complain, I had to admit that my work schedule was getting to be a bit much. She’d been pinch hitting for me with Maggie for the past week, ever since I got called in on the Lord’s Acre fire and we started digging in the field for Jennifer Allen’s bones.
“Dear, how much longer do you think this will go on?” Mom asked. “Maggie is fine. We both are. But you know, she misses you.”
“Not sure,” I said. “But I’ve got someplace I need to be tonight. I may not be home until morning.”
Mom remained quiet for a moment. “Well, okay.”
I’d been wanting to ask and decided maybe it was time. “You know, Mom, the wedding’s in a couple of weeks. Have you figured this out yet?”
“I think so,” she said. It didn’t sound promising when she added, “I’m just waiting to talk it over with Bobby. He’s out of town for a few days.”
“Can you give me a hint?” I asked.
The phone silent for a few moments, she said, “I need to talk to him first, dear.”
In Del’s small conference room, I laid the charts and maps I’d compiled out on the table. “If we’re going to catch Beau Whittle, we need to figure out what he’ll do next. Not just what, but when and where. All we have to work with is what he’s done in the past.”
“We know what he’ll do next,” Del said. “He’ll burn down a church.”
“Right. And based on the fact that he accidently killed a pastor at Lord’s Acre, and then knowingly torched a church with people inside, Beau will try to set up a scenario that will result in casualties. Lord’s Acre changed him. The fires alone aren’t enough now.”
“Yeah,” Del said, his mouth twisted in disgust. “Shit. I’ve got that. I do.”
“Okay. My thought, too, is that this time around he’ll try to stack the deck in his favor.”
“That means?”
“Yesterday at St. Pete’s, everyone got out. He had a small fire, not what he wanted, and his intended victims all escaped. Nothing he wanted to happen happened.”
“So, you think he’ll try to make sure he gets a bigger blaze and that people die in the next fire? How will he make that happen?”
I didn’t even like to think about the possibility, but we had to be realistic. To stop Beau, we had to understand him. “My bet is that he’ll have someone trapped inside when he sets the fire.”
Del nodded, and his frown grew decidedly longer. He lowered his head and sighed. “Back to where we started…how do we stop him?”
I paused. I didn’t have an answer. I’d spent a lot of time going over the charts, reviewing the map and the timeline. I searched for patterns, anything to predict where Beau Whittle would strike and when.
At times, serial criminals like Beau did odd things that helped us capture them. They spaced crimes at predictable intervals, maybe always on a Wednesday evening or a Thursday afternoon, on days with a six in them, or only the first Tuesdays of months. But Beau’s fires jumped from a Saturday to a Monday, to a Wednesday, then to a Sunday, all different times of day and night. So the timeline made no sense. The only thing I could tell was that Beau was lighting the fires more often. The first two had been weeks apart. The last two were only separated by days.
The map provided no help either. I’d circled all the fires in red, and they formed no perceivable pattern, no noticeable design to indicate location was a factor. Based on this, I believed Jimi Jo told the truth, and that her common-law husband picked the churches for personal reasons to exact revenge.
“We visit Jimi Jo in the jail and question her again,” I suggested.
“Did you ask my lawyer about talking to me?” This time around, the love of Beau Whittle’s life had decided she wouldn’t be manipulated. “I want my lawyer.”
That demand held things up a bit, but before long Jimi Jo’s court-appointed lawyer joined us, and we all sat in the conference room. My timeline and map were gone, stowed in a folder on Del’s desk. They’d been replaced by pages torn out of the phonebook that listed every church in the county.
“Why should I help them?” Jimi Jo asked her attorney.
A sallow-skinned man with bulging eyes and thinning grey hair, Jason Cummings stared at his client as if she had small pox. He hadn’t wanted to take the case, and he’d told the judge as much.
The defense attorney had valid reasons. Cummings attended St. Theresa of the Flowers, the first church Beau and Jimi Jo burned. Still he had a duty, and in this case it wasn’t to his church. The judge made it clear that every criminal lawyer in the county had a potential conflict on this case. As far as the judge knew, every one of them attended a church. And with Beau Whittle at large, every church in the county remained in danger.
“My client has a very good point, Sheriff,” Cummings said. “Why should Miss. Jaspers cooperate? What are you offering?”
“We have a deal to propose,” Del explained. “If Miss. Jaspers agrees, we’ll get the D.A. in here and iron this out.”
“It better be good,” Jimi Jo said. “Beau’s my man, and I’m the kind of woman who sticks by her man.”
There are times I find it hard to keep my mouth shut.
“You’ve already given Beau up, Jimi Jo,” I pointed out. “You’ve told us he burned the church. You signed a confession claiming he was the planner and the main executor of all the fires, including the one that killed Pastor Wilson.”
Jimi Jo gave me a threatening look, and then turned to her lawyer. “I guess I did do that, huh?”
“Yes, but we can always try to fight the confession in court,” he said. “If you were coerced somehow?”
Jimi Jo scowled and nodded at me and at Del. “I’m sure these two did something wrong getting me to confess. I wouldn’t a just told them about Beau, you know.”
“Of course.” Cummings sighed. At that, he turned back to us. “What kind of deal do you have in mind?”
“If Miss. Jaspers helps us, gives us a full list of the churches Beau Whittle mentioned to her, and helps us stop him,” I explained. “The sheriff and I are willing to talk to the district attorney and ask to have the death penalty taken off the table in her case.”
“The death penalty!” Jimi Jo screamed. “Are you kidding? You’re going to kill me just for helping Beau out a little?”
“Miss. Jaspers, please. Watch your words. Don’t give them more evidence against you than you already have. You should never have talked to them without a lawyer!” Cummings said, trying to calm her. Jimi Jo rolled her eyes at him, but he ignored her. “Lieutenant, Sheriff, if you’d leave us for a few minutes, my client and I need to talk.”
“You bet,” Del said. We
walked out, and left them to it.
Curious, I hesitated outside the room and peeked in through a window in the door. I couldn’t hear what Cummings told Jimi Jo, but his face flushed, and when she interrupted, he sucked in his lips. He appeared to be having a hard time remaining calm as she continually shouted over him. Finally, he looked openly angry and blurted something out.
Jimi Jo stopped talking. Her eyes wide, she looked stunned. And he took over the conversation.
My guess? Mr. Cummings was most likely explaining the law in Texas, what’s called the Law of Parties. Under it, everyone involved in a felony that leads to a murder, not just the one who wields the knife, shoots the gun, or lights the match, is eligible for the full range of punishments. Burning the church with Pastor Wilson inside was murder, and because he was killed during the commission of a second felony, the arson, it was a capital crime eligible for the death penalty.
As Cummings talked, Jimi Jo’s face drooped. She grew decades older before my eyes. As volatile as she’d been, I waited for a scream. Instead, she put her head down on her arms on the table and buried her face. Her shoulders shook, and I assumed there were tears I couldn’t see.
I walked off and found Del in his office, where we sat in silence and waited. We returned to the conference room a few minutes later when Cummings asked someone to let us know his client wanted to talk.
“Miss. Jaspers would like to take your offer,” he said. “But we need the deal in writing.”
The DA’s office just down the block in the main square, that went quickly. Once the lawyers finished the paperwork, Del and I picked up the discussion.
“Let’s start going through the possibilities,” I said, taking out my list of all the churches in the area. “After St. Theresa’s, Pathway to Salvation, Lord’s Acre, and St. Pete’s, where did Beau intend to start fires?”
“There were only two more I knew of for sure. I think Beau had others in mind, but I didn’t really ever ask him which ones. And he didn’t show me what he added to the list,” Jimi Jo said.
The Buried Page 16
